Underground
by PegasusAcc
Summary: When suspicions arise about an underground mobile factory, Trowa is sent undercover. But when he runs into his past during the mission, will he be able to accept it and move to the future, or die underground?


Underground

Prologue:

198-02-02

The office atmosphere was thick, the stale humidity of summer dripping down the chilled glass of ice water that left a ring on the mahogany table. The air conditioner hummed noisily, blowing nothing but more fusty air into the room. The former colonel sighed, then signaled her secretary.

"Weber," she drawled slowly, drumming on the table. "Would you call in Officer Barton please? I'd like to have a word with him if you would."

The young redhead poked her head through the doorframe, her curls bouncing. Her brow knit tightly as she snapped her gum and stopped filing her nails. "Ya mean Mr. _Trowa_ Barton, ma'am?" Lady Une coughed lightly. Weber hardly constituted as top notch Preventer material per se, but she did try hard and follow orders well. She'd been a former Treize Faction member, and it seemed unjust to dump such a loyal soldier simply because they weren't up to par with the current standards. Plus, the unending devotion to mister Treize held back any contempt Une had for the young girl. Even though he'd died in battle, Lady refused to let his ideals die, and somehow this helped her conscious. Besides, how much trouble could she get into as a secretary?

"Yes, Weber. That's the one."

"Oh my gawd! Please don't joke around Lady, Ma'am! Officer Barton, the former and only single gundam pilot?" She squealed happily. "It would be my pleasure!" Lady Une heard the squeak of Weber's un-oiled chair wheels and groaned.

"Are you watching, Mr. Treize?" she mumbled, reaching for her glass of water. "You know I'm putting myself through hell for your sake." The door in the adjoining room opened and closed, Weber's constant babble and girlish laughter audible again.

"This way, Mr. Barton," Weber cooed, her voice sickeningly sugarcoated. "The ma'am would like to see you." Weber poked her head through the door, her face flushed the shade of her hair. "Officer Barton, ma'am."

Lady Une waved her hand flippantly. "Yes, yes. Send him in." Trowa stepped through the doorframe, casting a sideways glance at the secretary through his bangs. 

"Uh, thank you," he mumbled, adding a slight and uncertain bow. Weber burst into a fit of giggles and left. Trowa turned to Une for some type of explanation. Lady shrugged.

"I took pity on her. She used to serve Mr. Treize, and I couldn't help but keep her on staff. She has a good heart, and Treize so favored the people-"

"Not showing favoritism are we?" he asked, a sly smile in his eyes as he took a seat in front of her. Even though the temperature could be compared to that of a sauna, he didn't appear to be the least bit uncomfortable. Not even the sweat sliding down his neck seemed to faze him.

"Enough," she snapped, her calm, collected façade melting under the heat. "I didn't call you here to criticize my methods, ideals or staff." She tossed a file across the desk. "I have a small fire that needs to be extinguished."

Trowa flipped through the papers and frowned. "This seems rather small for the need of my skills." He looked up at her, face straight. "This is only a rumor about titanium mining and production. Titanium is a metal used for lots of things. What makes this plant so special?" He paused a moment. "Are you assuming that the material is being used for mobile suit production?" Lady Une nodded solemnly, lifting her hair from the back of her sweltering neck and cursing herself for no longer wearing it in braids. At least then it had been out of the way.

"True, and I nearly over looked it myself. In fact, I believe I may have overlooked it already in the past." She glared unhappily at the air conditioner. "There's too much capital going into a simple mining and production exploit. Something doesn't sit right."

"So you're worried about the amount of money going into the operation?" Trowa closed the file and moved closer to the desk. "I don't see why it would be a Preventer issue, but if it's a monetary issue you're worried about, why not send Heero, or better yet Quatre? You know that with his position as head of Winner Corporation he can smooth out negotiations on those types of matters better than I ever could." Lady Une shook her head, taking another sip of water.

"If I thought it was only a monetary issue, I would; and I might still if things refuse to pan out. But I did some digging and found a few more facts that didn't seem to fit into the puzzle." She tossed a second file across the desk. "That plant produces a certain quota of tons of material every month, and yet after production and refinement, the quantity of the finished product never matches that of the raw material."

"So?" Trowa asked, narrowing his eyes but refusing to brush away the sweat that slid into his them. "We don't know how much of the excess is used and how much thrown away." He leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling, hands in his lap.

"But over a thousand tons? And only over a matter of a decade or so?"

"What?" Trowa snapped, sitting straight. "There shouldn't be that much missing, unless-"

"Exactly," Une finished. "It's your mission is to find out what's happening to the extra material. I'm sending you as an undercover operative." Lady took a deep breath. "If my instincts are right, someone is building mobile suits. By who or for what purpose, I don't know yet. The only thing that I'm sure of is that this outfit has been in existence since the days the Alliance was still in power. I want to know everything: how are they getting the resources, how have they been able to keep their operation secret, where are they getting the manual labor, and most of all, for what purpose do they exist? Am I understood?"

Trowa looked through his bangs at the files, trying to ignore the sticky sensation of his shirt molding to his back. "Ma'am."

"I'm glad that we have an accord. But there's something I want you to understand. I've told no one about this operation; therefore you are not at liberty to disclose any of the information given to you here. Do I make myself perfectly clear?" Trowa took a deep breath and nodded, his eyes beginning to burn from the air in the office. Une glared at him for a moment before opening her desk drawer and removing a small box.

"This is what you will use to communicate with us. It's not direct contact, but our GPS satellite will be able to pick up your position no matter where you are. Maxwell used it on his last mission, and it worked rather well, considering. And as well as allowing us to pinpoint your location, this will track your movement and help give us a blueprint of the area." Lady Une groaned and blinked, eyes watering. "So many unknown factors in this case, it seems almost inhumane to send you on the mission. But I have no inkling of doubt that you won't be able to complete the task."

Trowa pulled the box toward him, brushing his fingers over the worn, black cloth cover. The package seemed well used, but in fairly decent condition. He looked inside and clenched his teeth.

"I can see how this helped Duo," he muttered, pulling out the small crucifix transmitter and clasping it around his neck. The metal was cold against his skin.

"Yes, it was useful when he infiltrated the Vatican and stopped the assassination attempt on the Pope." She looked at him, concern radiating in her eyes. Silently, Trowa tucked the necklace inside his shirt.

"Are you alright, Officer Barton?" Nodding, Trowa slipped the files under his arm. Lady Une smiled. "Alright then. As of the moment you step out of this office, you will become nothing more than a nameless soldier. Trowa Barton has died, or at least for the time being. You have no name, no past, and now, no comrades. Nothing ties you down." Trowa snorted.

"Is something humorous?" Une asked quietly, drawing the blinds.

"Nothing," he lied, bowing. "If you don't need me any longer…"

Une inclined her head. "You're dismissed."

As Trowa left, Weber flocked to him in a frenzy. "Oh! Are you alright Mr. Barton? Ya look so serious, like somebody just died! Are you sure you don't want a cup o' coffee or nothing?" He ignored her, heading for the door. "Mr. Barton?"

"You've got the wrong guy, I'm not Trowa." He clicked the door into the frame as he left, leaning his head against the wood.

"You've got the wrong guy, I'm not Trowa," he repeated mechanically to himself, feeling the outline of the transmitter around his neck. He smirked to himself, closing his eyes. "What irony. It seems I've once again become nameless."


End file.
